


Land of a Hundred Thousand Bridges

by theoceanpath



Series: Constellations Dance on Your Skin [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Edo Period, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 13:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18942130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoceanpath/pseuds/theoceanpath
Summary: 🌸





	Land of a Hundred Thousand Bridges

_Kan'ei Era, 1634 A.D._

Sometimes he dreams of sirens. Most nights, he dreams of swans.

There is no trace of darkness. Their feathers are white, sky white, the white of the foam that bubbles up wildly on the endless seas. White as brand new sails that have yet to face the terrors of a storm in the Atlantic. White as wentletrap shells from the Dutch East Indies, or porcelain and silk carefully stored in Chinese junks.

Perhaps he could sell them. And perhaps, in a fairy-touched world where dreams are hard and solid, Prometo could be rich.

* * *

The wood planks shiver in the summer heat when he gets off the Red Seal ship. The past months have taken him from Madrid to Mexico to Manila, where he hitched a ride on a _shuinsen_ , and now here he is at a port in Nagasaki with the mission of securing an Asian-based niche in the Galleon Trade.

He's supposed to be a knight.

But knights need enough to get by and gold is scarce in the homeland these days. The French-funded war fronts are taking a heavy toll on their coffers. Even with the money pouring in from the colonies, the royal treasury is running low on finances, so barely two years after his knighthood ceremony, he sells his Andalusian stallion and heeds his father's advice to join the family business. It's one failure after another from then on, and as the last of the La Mancha's wealth goes up in smoke, they turn their prospects to the Orient in a final, desperate effort to salvage their remaining ties to nobility.

"Of all places, why Japan?" asks the captain, lifelong seafarer and head of the Akira clan, precious red-sealed document in hand.

"I don't know," the youngest La Mancha heir replies. For how can he explain the sense of adventure that draws him to this forbidden part of the world? The Indies would have been a more stable source of income.

_But what is life without taking risks?_

"I wish you a blessed voyage to Edo. And do not forget what I told you."

"If anyone asks, I'm Portuguese. I'll remember." There's a weird lump in Prometo's throat and a fluttering in his chest. He swallows hard.

"Be careful."

"Muchas gracias. Arigatou."

With a bit of help from his fellow passengers, he finds a sea vessel to take him to the _Tokugawa bakufu's_ capital and purchases a ticket in accented Portuguese, taking utmost caution not to give his identity away.

 _Don Prometo de La Mancha._ _From Portugal._

_Sounds terrible._

He laughs at the thought. But business is business and if switching nationalities is the way to gold, then so be it. Magellan did the same thing, and his men discovered Spain's irreplaceable trading post in the Far East.

 _Don Prometo de La Mancha._ _Conquistador._

_Perfect._

Casting a despondent look at the mountain ridge towering above the black-hulled Portuguese carrack moored in the bay, he sucks in a little more courage from the salty air and banishes the thought that this venture may be doomed as well.

* * *

Exhaustion creeps into Prometo's bones as he undertakes the last legs of his journey on foot through the stations of the Tokaido Road. He picks up a lot from his fellow travellers. The language is still a struggle, but with some assistance he can take part in a conversation and understand at least half of what is being said. He learns to identify most parts of the local attire— the outer coat is called _haori_ , _kosode_ or _nagagi_ go under, the _juban_ are the innermost layers, and every so often he meets someone wearing a pointed _kataginu_ vest. Overall, as long as you're not a foreign missionary or an enemy of the governing _daimyos_ , this seems like a nice place to live in.

At last he reaches the bustling city of Edo. There are signs of opulence all around, interspersed with a picture of the working class enjoying a respite from daily labor. He visits what appears to be the local equivalent of a tavern, where gray-haired men are sharing stories over cups of sake. Rice wine has loosened their tongues and he leans closer to catch up on the latest gossip.

"…I swear it was like a real swan casting a spell on us. He was so beautiful. Like a child of the moon itself."

"And such delicate white feathers on his arms and chest— perhaps it was meant to imitate the _hagoromo_?"

"Are you blind? Did you not see the back of his neck and shoulders? That was certainly no heavenly robe!"

"Ah, but it was _heavenly_ indeed."

A round of guffaws breaks out until the youngest-looking one among the group calls them to silence.

"Please, enough with that talk. Do you want him to get banned too? You never know what the shogunate may think of next."

"Nonsense! There are no more women allowed in the theatre. If they take away the boys as well…" A pause. Snickers. "Besides, are we not in Yoshiwara— the _Floating Realm_ itself! What is there to be quiet about?"

They change topics soon after. A bit of war, a bit of weather. Prometo goes to sleep with a deeper knowledge of the lords ruling the land and the name of a boy in a bird costume whom he plans to visit very soon.

* * *

Within a week, he schedules an appointment with the district magistrate's cousin. The man is taller than average, and his hair is not as black or as straight as Prometo has come to expect. He sets aside a scrap of parchment and rises from the mat, clad in a dark blue _haori_ and _nagagi, and_ gray _hakama_ , that seem to fit the white-thonged sandals he saw lying by the entrance.

 _Zori_ , he remembers. Those flat soles are called _zori_.

They exchange greetings. Prometo tries to remember how to bow properly, and they talk over a cup of tea about the perils of his journey from the Iberian coast.

The man's lips draw into a thin line. "The Portuguese made slaves of us. Do not think we will easily forget the sins of the past."

"I'm— uh— I'm Spanish," he stutters.

"You're Spanish."

Prometo counts the seconds before his arrest. No one comes. He remembers to breathe.

"Are you not aware that Spanish traders are not welcome here anymore? And have not been permitted for _ten years_?"

"I've come to realize that," Prometo answers without missing a beat. "I travelled here on a _shuinsen_. It appears you have mastered the technology quite well— wood from Ayutthaya, ship designs and sailor's charts from Portugal. You need not rely on galleons from Manila after all."

There is so much more he can say, but he is the guest here, a foreigner, and for the sake of future negotiations _and his life_ he holds his tongue.

The conversation shifts. _Diplomacy, diplomacy,_ and his host seems adept at this. "I heard that Spain and the Netherlands at war."

"Yes, but who is Spain not fighting these days?"

Prometo takes a sip of tea. It is hot and light in color, and it tastes nothing like chocolate.

What if he puts up a chocolate business in Japan? Maybe he can set a new trend; if he introduces Spain's beloved drink here and the locals develop a liking for it, he can reap a fortune. He just needs a supply of cacao beans, and nutmeg, and—

"Is there no place in all of Europe for an aspiring merchant?"

—and he could just go home and spare himself all the trouble. He can still be a knight anyway, even without a horse, or armor, or weapons...

The official clears his throat, jolting him out of his daydreams. Chocolate, armor— _armor?_ What were they talking about again?

"Well?"

_Knights… something about tea? The Netherlands. War?_

"Well, France is out of the question. So is Sweden. England too. And it's only a matter of time before Catalonia and Portugal stage their own uprisings."

"Your empire is crumbling, it seems."

He has no answer to that.

"Tell me, young man, what is your name?"

"Prometo de La Mancha, humble knight of Espania."

"Chris Reed."

"It's an English name," Prometo notes.

"It is." A blast of wind knocks at the screen; rainwater trickles into the well outside. "My mother was enslaved by traders and sold across the Mediterranean. My father was one of those who journeyed to the New World."

Ties to the New World? Now _that's_ interesting. "The British colonies? Are they doing well?"

"They have survived many winters, and their numbers are on the rise."

"Is that so? I suppose this only proves that the world is still ripe for exploration."

The man pins him with a glare. "No. It means that the world is ripe for _freedom_."

There is a rebuke in that tone, but it is lost on Prometo's ears when he notices the painting of a half-human, half-crane imprisoned on the wall.

* * *

In his search for masquerading quasi-avian creatures, Prometo becomes acquainted with a former samurai who goes by the name of Sano. He convinces the man to accompany him to one of the cheaper kabuki theatres around. He then shells out a portion of his earnings from the sale of ivory pendants from the Moors, and they grant him entrance to the modestly-built stage.

Inside, everyone is nestled comfortably on the floor. Prometo finds a spot near the center, folds his legs and ignores the inevitable cramping of his muscles, the price to pay for an hour of entertainment.

The air fills with the music of drums, bamboo flutes, and some kind of three-stringed rectangular banjo as the performers dance. The flowing twists and turns in stylized kimonos are pleasing to watch, albeit different from the _gallarda_ and _pavaniglia_ back home. Words fly over his head, light-hearted caricatures and things that make the audience laugh while he does his best to parse meanings with his limited grasp of the language. There's an elderly couple and a man chopping wood in the forest in this dramatized folktale, a town gathering and one market scene imbued with cultural intricacy that strikes him with a subtle dissonance as the play goes on.

 _Wait_. There's lots of white paint on the person's face, but she's… a _boy_?

"We call them _Onnagata_. They are in high demand nowadays," Sano explains to him. And indeed, to Prometo's surprise, there is not a single lady on the stage.

"Are there truly no women at all, Sano-san?"

"Oh, have you not heard? The shogunate banned female performers a few years ago because of the rampant moral corruption among their patrons. Male performers, especially the _wakashu_ who have not yet undergone the coming-of-age ceremony, are now taking their place." He scoffs. "As if that changes anything. Even now, there are widespread rumors of clients fighting over the attentions of some _wakashu_."

A newcomer enters. Black and white feathers are sewn into his costume like scattered ashes; a splash of plum dye trails across one arm. His features are an evocative mix of pretty and handsome, and the applause of the crowd rises to the ceiling.

_Notte! Notte! Notte-pon! Notte-kun, ganbatte!_

He plays a crane maiden, Prometo's older companion explains, but the feathers of his garment are tailored after a fledgling swan. The young man takes measured steps toward the audience, incomparable elegance in his every move, and his eyes are like nothing Prometo has seen before.

"Who is that?"

"Recent transferee from Miyagi. He's been doing a number of female roles recently, as he is quite talented for his age."

The strings of the _shamisen_ double in speed. The swan spreads its mismatched wings and falls flat on its face.

_Oh._

_He tripped._

The sound of wooden clappers accentuates the boy's untimely encounter with the floor. He gets up in haste and carries on with the dance, impossibly graceful despite his blunder, though Prometo can tell he's blushing under the white paint. If anything the audience gets even rowdier. They probably think he's adorable. Prometo thinks he needs a proper pair of shoes.

"Imagine the patrons who will come. A few wealthy clients and he could be a star," Sano remarks, but Prometo barely hears a word, thoughts focused on the exquisite detailing of the cygnus-inspired costume.

The crane-swan flies away, and the play comes to an end, leaving Prometo to agonize over the pain of a hundred stinging nettles thrashing his legs.

"You can meet the boy later if you wish," Sano informs him with a knowing smile. "Though I suspect you won't be the only one desiring an audience with him tonight."

* * *

_Tonight_ means in the warmth of a teahouse, with melodies pouring out from _shamisen_ players in the background.

"I have many connections here," the old man says, and the next thing he knows, Prometo is getting a rundown off the members of the kabuki troupes who frequent this place.

Minoru brings Prometo's attention to an actor in peach-toned women's clothes entertaining guests by the corner. "Remember him? That's Tatsuki, a famous _onnagata_ in these parts. He has starred in many plays, but is due to retire soon. Once he shaves his forelocks no one will accept him in these roles anymore."

"What's with the white powder?"

"Merely an _enhancement_ to their allure _._ Quite fitting, is it not, for one who portrays a beguiling virgin?"

Prometo recognizes another performer from that afternoon, garbed in black and yellow this time, fingers wrapped around the handle of an indigo silk fan. "How about that one?"

Sano glances discretely at the customers behind him. "Keiji. A _tachiyaku_ ," he says, and proceeds to explain the manly attire suited for heroes and other male characters. The way the _tachiyaku_ conducts himself is a stark contrast to the _onnagata_ Prometo has seen so far, as if their assigned roles on stage carry over to real life.

"You have met the two Daisukes, I presume."

 Prometo hasn't.

"And over there is the _tachiyaku_ who plays none other than the great Oda Nobunaga himself."

His name is Nobunari. _Oda_ Nobunari. Is the surname a coincidence?

"It is quite strange that a member of their clan has chosen this profession. But the wars among the _daimyos_ are not without consequences. Much has changed after the fight at _Sekigahara_."

The warlord's relative busies himself in conversation with two young lads. One is barely into his teens, forced smiles and wavy hair and sleep-filled eyes, looking like he'd rather be curled up in bed than partake in the idle chatter that smothers this place. Bluebell and sunflower hues make up his attire tonight, and beside him is the boy who previously donned the feather costume, now clothed in soft pastel aquamarine and ivory, with impeccable poise from the peridot _obi_ tied around his waist to the white _tabi_ covering his feet. And then he laughs, brash and unrefined, and all the earlier sophistication disappears.

Their eyes meet. Prometo sees two perfect tulip shells, twin drops of onyx on cream jade, and _maybe he should enter the jewelry industry too._ After all, whelks and conches and tiger cowries are the rage back home. If he could find a way to collect seafood refuse from the coastal markets and transport it to Mexican waters without being intercepted by pirates from the Dutch East Indies…

"Sir?"

Oh, was he daydreaming again?

His companion sends him a sympathetic look. "Come. I'll introduce you to him."

Up close, Prometo notices constellations in the ivory fabric. There's an outline of beads he recognizes as the archer, and one that could be a hunter or a knight. The glass diamond sewn on his chest must be Polaris, he surmises.

"Nanban?" the boy asks with a hint of distrust. _Portuguese._

"Spanish. I'm Prometo de La Mancha. It's a pleasure to meet you, _Notte-san_." He gets down on one knee in respect like the knight that he is— or was— because all this bowing is starting to hurt his back.

The boy's nose scrunches. " _Notte Stellata_ is my stage name. It's what they call me in these parts." He taps a finger to his chin for a moment, mulling something over, before his eyes light up and all traces of hesitance vanish from his face. "Haru Tsuru desu. Douzo yoroshiku."

"Haru." What an interesting name. It rolls softly on his tongue and boy's mouth twitches slightly at his pronunciation. "Your performance earlier was amazing. Everyone loved it."

Haru's reaction is to cover his face. "It was _terrible_! Especially when I fell— it was so embarrassing! I'm really frustrated," he says, and another important word lodges itself in Prometo's memory.

_Kuyashii._

They talk a little more until Haru is called away by his superiors. He bends over impossibly deep and flashes Prometo a bright smile when he leaves.

Haru is certainly intriguing. Thin as a rapier, smart, spirited, with a laugh that mimics the rustling of branches. And Prometo needs more lessons on Japanese.

"So, did you learn anything new?" Minoru asks him on their way out.

The words tumble out of his mouth. "Sano-san, where can I hire a tutor?"

The older man laughs.

* * *

Haru is a very curious young man, he finds out.

They meet again on the street outside the theatre house one afternoon, when Haru has just finished rehearsing and Prometo is on his way to celebrate after a successful sale of indigo and cochineal. Haru talks of castles built by the ruling _daimyos_ all over the country, the Battle of Sekigahara, and the nature spirits inhabiting their domains. In turn, Prometo tells him about stained glass windows illuminating stone cathedrals back home, the feverish excitement in the arena during a bullfight, and the legendary gold dust of _El Dorado_.

"And you went to the _university_?"

"No. I trained to be a knight. I even fought in battle once."

"A knight is like a samurai, right?"

"A little. The armor's different."

"I've never seen one before." Something in Haru's expression turns wistful; his eyes flicker with the stirrings of a wish, or of one snuffed out before it was born. His gaze drops to his feet as he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "Why did you come to Japan?"

"Business matters," Prometo explains, ignoring the momentary lull in their conversation that weighs heavy in the rain-scented air. "I thought I'd try my luck in the Pacific."

"But why Japan?"

_Why._

Because… once upon a time he was a boy playing in the city streets who saw a folding screen from the Orient. There were cranes on it, and warriors, and the blade of their _katana_ was so different from the scimitar of the Moors, or the Crusader's sword he had known all his life. And Prometo, young and naïve and idealistic young heir, had not yet learned the sorrow of unfulfillable dreams.

"I wanted to be a knight when I was a kid. I also wanted to visit Japan. Guess you can't do both at once."

"What happened?"

"Hard times. Money isn't easy to get by these days. My leg was injured in a swordfight, and I had to spend some time at home recovering. With no other man in the family, my father asked me to think twice next time before rushing off to get myself killed. Now I have riding spurs but no horse, and a shield worth no more than a washbasin."

"So you quit."

Prometo chuckles darkly.

_Have you learned nothing from Cervantes? Knights are a dying breed. Who needs swords when you have muskets? A pistol is better than ten lances._

_An impossible dream, Prometo. That's all you have. An empty, tiny, unreachable star._

"Yeah. I quit," he says at last. Funny how it took him a voyage across three oceans to acknowledge the fact.

Haru seems to catch on to the shift in mood and tries to cheer Prometo up. "I know one knight's name! Don Quixote, the old man who went on a search for honey," he says, looking pleased at himself for remembering the tale.

Prometo chokes on his tea. "For _honey_? What made you think his quest was all about _honey_?"

"He was always thinking of something sweet, right? Something _dul-cee-ne-yah_? Honey is the sweetest thing ever."

Haru smiles innocently, and Prometo feels something deep within him explode with frustration. The peerless Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, _El principe de los ingenious_ of Spain, did not write the greatest epic in all of Iberia just to be mistranslated like this.

"No, no, _no,_ " he groans, to Haru's infinite amusement. "Dulcinea was a _girl_."

* * *

Fish.

More fish.

Prometo fights the urge to tear his hair out. Over the course of a few months, he's eaten enough seafood to drown in. His appetite completely gone, he sets down the chopsticks and takes his time inspecting the low table and the bronze candleholder in the middle, admiring the unique craftsmanship. Japanese metal smiths are truly excellent. He can understand the clamor for these things in the West.

A soft clunk on wood alerts him to the fact that the other occupant of the table has finished his meal. "So?" his newest acquaintance, Takahito Mura, inquires. "What do you wish to sell?"

"Deerskins, animal pelts, the usual. I'm on the lookout for other possible commodities. Do you think tobacco would be profitable? I can arrange a shipment of cigars from Manila. Would you be interested in spices, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid there is no great demand here for spices from the Indies."

"Paintings? Lace coverlets? Bone carvings from the New World?"

Takahito shakes his head.

"But what else can I do? Those bloody carracks have a monopoly on the silk trade with China!"

"Patience, my friend," is the advice he gets. "Business is never easy when you have competition."

 _Business is never easy when you were never a businessman to begin with._ He can't believe he gave up a chance at homeland glory for… _this_. His family will be so disappointed in him when he returns.

"Speaking of which, have you heard the latest rumor? His lordship Tokugawa Iemitsu has plans to issue a new decree. It's the same policy established last year, but this time they'll be more strict. Under the threat of execution, no Japanese will be able to leave the country, and all foreigners and Catholics, save for the most important trading partners, will be expelled."

"Why?" Getting rid of foreigners can be rationalized, but barring the locals from going overseas? Wouldn't it destroy their ties to the international market? What would the Shogunate gain from closing their country to worldwide trade? Born and raised in the empire where the sun never sets, and explorers have rewritten history for over a hundred years, Prometo cannot fathom the logic of such a move.

"Many reasons. Slaves. Smuggled priests. Silver mine workers that never came. The shogunate abhors those who seek to destroy our culture."

"But why Spain? How is Macau any different from Manila? Why does Portugal—" he cuts himself off and takes a deep gulp, uncaring of the dark stains forming on his clothes. What is he even doing here anyway? He ought to find a ship and leave this place once and for all.

"The Portuguese negotiate well. Under the guidance of William Adams—"

"Blasted William Adams! They got help from the English!"

Takahito ignores his fit of temper and goes on, "Right now, construction of a special trading base in Nagasaki has begun. The Dutch have Hirado. The Portuguese will have Dejima."

"And the Spanish get nothing."

The trader's eyes turn cold in warning. _Be thankful they haven't deported you yet._

 _Right._ Now if someone would kindly reimburse the cost of all those bundles of Merino wool he sold to embark on this trip.

And a few copper pieces for his next visit to the cobbler. He misplaced his newest boots when he left Spain, and now the ones on his feet are nearly worn out.

He sighs.

What a terrible, terrible day. He wants to see Haru again.

* * *

"I saw a few Spanish from Kyoto once. They had curly hair like you," Haru tells him as they stroll down the roads on the other side of the moat surrounding Yoshiwara. The boy rarely gets out of the district, and for Prometo this is nothing short of a tragedy.

 _Let's visit Edo River,_ he offers, and Haru agrees right away.

"My father worked in Kanagawa once. He saw the Spanish galleons that would visit the Port of Uraga every year. He said they were very big and full of goods, and there were many guns among their wares," he continues, eyes fixed on the burst of wings fluttering around the tiny white blooms scattered by the path.

"They're still not as big as the Portuguese ships. Those black carracks are _huge_. You can fit an elephant in one of them."

They pass by a field of gold chrysanthemums. Haru finds one with a ladybug on it. He tries catching damselflies, giggling at his failed attempts, and ends up with a few stray beetles on his clothes instead. Prometo stoops to pluck a red spider lily. It reminds him of bloodbaths and battles, and Haru doesn't like it either, so he throws it away.

He finds a single dark lavender flower, the only one of its kind in the patch of amber and scarlet, and can't help reimagining it as the infamous asphodel. "If only the Keicho embassy succeeded, there'd be more of us here. Faxicura tried his best to negotiate with Spain, but these are changing times."

"F-Faxicura…?"

"Pardon me, that was his Catholic name. I mean Hase-Hasekura Tsu-Tsune-Tsuna-"

"Hasekura Tsunenaga?"

"Yes! Are you— or is anyone you know acquainted with him?"

There's a praying mantis on Haru's shoulder. Prometo scoops it into his hand, accidentally tickling Haru when the marble-eyed green thing scoots down his back.

"He was the retainer of Date Masamune, the _daimyo_ of Sendai."

"I see."

"I'm from Sendai. I know there was a Spanish priest who joined their mission to Europe."

"You mean Friar Sotelo. He was from Sevilla."

"Lord Masamune saved his life once. You know, twenty years ago, you could have enjoyed visiting Sendai. It's beautiful there— many trees, hot springs, and mountains; it floods a lot, but our Tanabata Festival is the best."

"Well, twenty years ago I could barely read a map."

"And I wasn't born yet."

"You must have been a cute baby." The mental image of Haru with chubbier cheeks and a less-defined jaw comes to mind and Prometo grins.

 Haru pouts. "All babies are cute."

"Baby snakes aren't. Neither are baby moths." _Or spiders,_ he fails to add, suspecting the boy might actually have a liking for those weird crawling things.

"What about bees?"

" _Bees?_ "

"Baby bees must be cute."

"Ugh. Have you ever seen one? They look terrible."

A chilly draft gives Prometo goosebumps; twigs snap and leaves cascade down the fading saffron-coated sky. Haru frowns, reaching over to pluck dead foliage from Prometo's hair. "They say bees from Europe produce more honey than bees in Japan." His tone is strained in the way of contestants gearing up for a match, and Prometo gets a glimpse of how competitive this boy really is.

_He'd make a great businessman, if he had the chance._

"Maybe the Japanese bees are lazy," he shrugs.

"No they are _not_ ," Haru declares, contesting the sleight against his homeland. "Our bees work hard, unlike you."

Prometo sputters indignantly. "Are you calling _me_ lazy?"

Those lips twist into a discrete smirk, and the slight hitch in his voice disappears when he replies. "Well. You were very late today. For an _afternoon_ meeting."

"I…I…fell asleep!"

* * *

" _Tsuru Nyoubou,"_ Prometo reads the title of the play. "The Crane Wife. The unfaithful wife."

"She was not. She loved her husband."

"She left him."

"He broke his promise."

"He worried for her health."

Prometo has made the mistake of asking to see the boy's costume and joking that he'd steal it like hunters do to in the stories, and now they are at an impasse.

"The shellkies—"

" _Selkies_."

"The _selkies_ were betrayed. They did not deserve to have their seal fur stolen away!" argues Haru, and Prometo tries to placate him.

"It's just a story. We know it never happened."

"But it was cruel! Would you have done that? Would you have forced someone to stay if they didn't want to?"

Prometo thinks for a while. Would you force someone to give up his dream because no one believed in it? Would you force a country to submit?

"No. I wouldn't." His answer is simple, and Haru calms down, but those three words keep him awake until dawn.

* * *

Winter is approaching. He spies a pair of straw boots among the merchandise in town. Perhaps he should buy them in preparation for the first snowfall. He unwraps a bronze pendant from a linen pouch and trades it for a couple more sets of local attire crafted in the weaving district of Nishijin.

Soon enough the first flakes begin to alight on his skin. _Ugh._ He hates the cold. How do these people survive in this temperature? Realizing he'll look like a fool if he tries it on without someone to check if he's doing it right, he asks Haru's help because _just how many cloth belts does this thing have?_

"Can't I just tie the whole ensemble with a leather belt?" he says, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Haru gives him a longsuffering look. "If we choose to adhere to traditions, we must follow them carefully."

"Well then, I guess I'll be the first person in history to wear a kimono with a wire-framed, foot-wide, starched ruffled lace collar!"

Haru grimaces.

A few days later, he takes Haru's advice and plans a trip to a nearby hot spring. He buys himself a cheap maroon cotton _yukata_ from one of the stalls near the teahouse and tries it on. It takes a few moments of fumbling with the sash before he inserts his feet into the two-thonged wooden clogs.

"So, how do I look?"

Haru sneaks a glance at him and dissolves into a fit of wild laughter.

"What's wrong?" He couldn't have messed up too badly, right? It's just an oversized shirt, for goodness sake!

"You're wearing it the wrong way!" Haru explains with an amused snort. "Remember: left over right, unless you've just died."

 _Oh._ He's not that excited to join the afterlife, so he loosens the sash, reverses the folds, _left over right, left over right,_ ties the sash back on a bit haphazardly, and finally deems himself ready to show his face in public.

Haru cackles even harder.

"Nooooooooo! I didn't know you're one of the _teahouse beauties_ too!"

"What? What? What did I do wrong this time?" He stares at his garments. The sleeves look good. He crossed the front properly. His feet look okay. Wait, is it the socks? Maybe he should take them off? The wooden _geta_ seem fine if he goes barefoot.

"The sash," Haru giggles hysterically. "The sash should be tied at the back! Earlier you were a walking corpse. Now you look like the _ladies of the night_."

Mortified, he does a final adjustment on his outfit with Haru's wheezing laughter echoing in the background. Who knew a simple change of clothes could be this traumatizing?

"Do you want me to teach you?" Haru asks, as the topic switches to the art of dance. Prometo takes one look into those fierce, playful eyes that challenge the sun, and says yes. Haru guides him through the starting pose, and with extraordinary finesse, demonstrates the patterns inherited from the ancient _kagura_ fan dancers.

It's a simple set of moves. Beginner level. There is no reason for Prometo to be nervous.

But he is.

The first try is a flop, so Haru switches tactics. The _odori_ is livelier; he prefers it to the slower-paced _mai_ style. Prometo attempts to follow the steps but his feet are all over the place and the whole session is simply Haru holding back fits of breathy laughter while Prometo gets increasingly red in the face.

Such a birdlike creature he is. The wind explodes from his throat when Prometo trips on his feet, causing Prometo to chuckle at his own silliness.

"Ganbatte, Prometo!" he cheers a final time, as the knight collapses to the floor in utter defeat.

* * *

There's a bruise on Haru's face. There's a bruise on his arm. There's a bruise on his other arm.

And of course, Prometo is beside himself with worry.

"You got into a fight?"

"No. It was an accident."

"You're hurt."

 Haru looks away. He doesn't have his make-up on, and in the faint glow of sunlight through the window, the dark patch stands out against the rest of his face. "People want too much. Much want brings much praise; much praise brings much anger."

He's not a stranger to this. It's happened before. But how many times? Has this been going on all the while without Prometo ever realizing it?

"Are they threatening you?"

He doesn't deny it. "They call me beautiful. Admiration, hate, jealousy— I see it all in their eyes."

"Maybe you should leave."

"No!" he shouts; the abrupt burst of emotion makes Prometo draw back. Haru takes a wheezing breath, and Prometo can see his fingers dig into his palms to steady himself. "I want to dance. I want to act. I don't have any other skill. I devoted my life to this art."

Prometo has seen that look enough times to know what it means. So when his friends warn him to go back home, when the officials tighten security at the harbour and the main roads, he squares his shoulders and throws the calendar away.

* * *

Spring is on the horizon and their meetings become more frequent. Prometo keeps finding excuses to visit the boy, and Haru always seems to have time to spare.

"I wish I could travel to Spain one day. And Europe. And Mexico. I want to learn the dances there."

_Oh, so he wants to be an explorer too._

"Maybe in a few years when you're rich enough to hitch a ride on trader's ship. I'm warning you though, it's pretty boring spending all those months at sea with nothing but water, water, water— until you want to throw up."

There's so much he wants to discover about the world, Haru explains. A wise monk told him that the best way to do that is to travel, and if he had the opportunity, he would sail all the way to the New World.

_Even if he barely sets foot in the city proper. Does he ever go anywhere these days?_

"But what about in Japan? There's a lot of interesting places here, too."

"Hmm… I'd want to visit Fukuoka."

"Fukuoka? In Kyushu? Why?"

"There's the castle on Fukusaki near the port of Hakata. I'd visit Hakata too. I've always wanted to join the float races there during the festival."

"I think I heard of that. The yama-something."

"The Gion Yamakasa. It's fun! All seven districts hold a race through the streets and I wish I could participate."

"Do you really think you can carry one of those floats?"

"Of course I can. Prometo will help me."

"You mean _I_ will be doing the lifting and _you_ will stand by and watch."

"Exactly. Prometo can help carry the float with one hand and lift me with the other hand."

_What._

"You're a knight, right? I'm sure you're strong enough to carry me."

_What?_

"Prometo is so, so strong! Like a sumo wrestler!"

He really ought to strangle this boy.

A cloud passes and so does Haru's mood. "I've always wanted to travel, but I never could," he confesses. "This is merely one of the sacrifices I have to make as an Onnagata."

 _The performer's life is a lonely one_ , some wandering musician told him once, and he understands it now.

"One of my dreams is to watch the sunset at the _Hikari no Michi,"_ Haru continues. And we could visit the Sumiyoshi shrine there. Before you… before you set sail."

 _Before you leave_ , he means.

_It's getting too dangerous for you to remain here._

_Sooner or later they'll discover that you're Spanish._

Everyone's telling him to go, but Prometo is stubborn. He's not heading back yet. There's still time. There's still a little more time.

They exchange a few more stories and Prometo gets his first taste of this strange spicy green paste that sets his throat on fire.

* * *

Tonight the feathers of Haru's low-necked garment are pure white, snow and stars and milky agate as the dust flies like crushed diamonds at his feet. It's an unforgettable performance, fleeting and precious and finished all too soon. Prometo holds his breath, because _this_ is the moonlight swan with heavenly robes everyone talks about. Kings and queens would pay a fortune to watch such a treasure. Knights would go on a crusade for this.

The music ends. No one breathes for a moment. The swan exits the stage with tears in its eyes.

Prometo hangs his head. Time will not stop, not for the dancer, and not for the knight. _It's all an illusion_ , he mumbles aloud.

"Of course it is," interjects the person on his right. "After all, we're in Yoshiwara, remember?"

* * *

They're standing at the bridge over Edo River; Haru watches the birds call to each other and Prometo draws imaginary treasure chests where the roads fork out from the Nihonbashi.

"I heard the news," Haru says in a voice eerily reminiscent of a crane call.

"I didn't think the shogun would actually do it. Now you can't ever go abroad and if it won't be long until they force me out."

"You said Europe is a warzone. Why are you going back?" Haru asks in a near-whisper.

" Haru, if I only could, I'd stay but—" He clears his throat. Now is not the time to be sentimental. "I'm leaving tomorrow. There's a Portuguese ship about to embark from Nagasaki. The sooner I go, the better."

"I wanted to show you around Sendai." Haru's voice cracks.

 _Wait, is he crying?_ Prometo leans closer and hears the unmistakable sound of sniffles muffled by his sleeve. And a crazy, crazy thought forms in his mind.

"You can come with me. We'll find a way to smuggle you out. I'm sure a Chinese merchant vessel at a nearby port would be willing to accommodate you if we pay a sufficient sum."

Haru blinks back tears. "I… I'll go some other time."

"And how? Will you _swim across the Pacific_? The shogunate will kill you if they find you on those ships. If you want to leave, you have to act now."

"But if I go, I will not see the Aoba Castle completed. When _Hanami_ comes again I will have no sakura blossoms to gaze upon."

"You can… you can take them with you. It isn't too hard to transport seedlings— I see it all the time. Please, you said it was your wish to travel the world. This is your chance." He sounds desperate now.

Haru's face softens, and another tear finds its way down his cheek. "There are so many dances to learn. And music— I want to hear all that music too. But how can I abandon my country? My home, my family— I cannot bear to part with them forever just because of my dream."

 _Sorry,_ they say to each other, and it doesn't mean a thing.

 Prometo understands.

He thinks he does.

They walk in silence save for a nod or two as they pass the fish market of Uogashi. At the end of the day, he is just one failure of a knight who pawned off his armor, and one single man cannot fight the entire shogunate on his own.

_An impossible dream, Prometo. That's all you ever had. All you ever will._

* * *

He's nearing Nagasaki now, and Haru is on the other side of the country. He hurries past the castles and shrines and sights the island of Okinoshima in all its lonely glory. Haru always wanted to come here, so Prometo stops by and pretends he can magically transport all the scenery back to Edo. He walks down of the path of stars, breathing in the Japanese soundscape for the last time, and sees a man sweeping by a grove of small citrus trees that are a couple of months away from flowering season.

_Yuzu trees._

"It takes them a long time to bear fruit, but they're worth the wait," the shrine keeper tells him.

He resumes his journey to the port, unmindful of the slight drizzle licking at his straw hat. The rain tastes like salt and new beginnings and Prometo takes one final glance at the mainland with gratitude, whispering that one word he never dared speak until now.

_Sayonara._

* * *

A white silhouette stoops to untangle a vine snagging his foot in the small grove. Squirrels and sparrows flock toward it, and a small damselfly loops around the ivy trailing over the hedge.

_No way._

He'd know those swan feathers anywhere.

"Haru?" he calls to the nostalgic haze of spring colors, drawing out the rusty syllables with an awkwardness from lack of practice.

The boy turns around, and he sees that face once again, hair lopped off to match Prometo's own, more defined jaw, and less fat on his cheeks. He's not a boy anymore, is he?

"Prometo? Is that really you? I finally found you!"

He can't believe it. What is Haru doing here? And… why is he wearing that costume in the forest?

"It's been a long time," the boy says cryptically. His skin is slightly tanned and his eyes are not as warm as when they first met.

"It has," Prometo agrees. It really, really has. He slips his hand in the pocket of his brown doublet and it's a little less empty than before. "How'd you get here? Tell me, Portuguese or Dutch?"

"Chinese. Through Ryukyu. A friend from _Chosen_ helped me. He's a nice boy; he helped me hide for three days until the authorities left the ship."

"Even though he knew you're Japanese?"

"Jun Hwan is very kind. We couldn't talk much but he was so good to me."

From the land of the rising sun to the land of the morning calm. What an unlikely friendship.

"A junk took me to Manila. I found a Japanese community there. They let me stay for a few months."

"And did you learn the native tongues?"

"No, I asked them to teach me _Spanish."_ He wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

 Prometo chuckles. He imagines the language struggles Haru must have had, especially with their verbs and the different genders. He had a tough time deciphering things during his stay in Japan too.

"I didn't think you'd actually leave." When Haru doesn't reply, Prometo teases him, "Did you miss me?"

In response, Haru clears his throat. "I heard the Dutch have this special technique called 'skating' and I want to try it."

 Prometo blinks, dumbfounded. "Skating? You mean what they do when they're running on ice?"

"It's not just _running on ice_ ," Haru corrects him with the same unamused stare he's used on Prometo so many times before. "You can dance while gliding across the frost."

"But why would you come all the way here for just for that? And why Spain? No one skates here; you'd have better chances learning that in either France or Russia."

"I came here for something."

_Okay._

"You mentioned this before… it's a… a quest."

"A quest."

"Yes, a special quest."

"Can I help you on this quest of yours?"

Haru smiles mischievously— oh, he really missed that— and his eyes are shuttered in that sort of way that always sends a bead of sweat down Prometo's temple.

"You can assist with the first part. We're going to hunt bees."

Well it's been over a year and Prometo can't explain just how delighted he is to meet Haru again and this time he'll be the one to return the favour and assist him with his future endeavors and—

Wait.

_"_ _BEES?"_

"Yes. Special honeybees like the kind at home that can fight off hornets."

"Uh… wha-whatever are we going to do with them?" Prometo is on the verge of losing his mind but Haru is laughing and laughing and laughing, and it feels like the oceans have dried up and he is back in the city watching the sun dip into the waters of the land of the hundred thousand bridges with an oversized swan at his side.

Haru tugs at his wrist. "Come on, Prometo! We're off to find Dul-ci-ne-a!"

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Fukuhana. I couldn't have done this without you.


End file.
